Lost In Translation

Good Afternoon All, 
The following poem is very personal to me. I attended a Baptist Church for sometime and was treated very badly by certain members, when they discovered my son was homosexual and that I supported him. The poem is about my personal experience. I am not at all inferring that all churches treat homosexuals and their families this way. 
I truly believe that we are all judged in death and it is no human beings place to judge, condemn or persecute another. 

Lost In Translation

A mammoth oak door opens up, to symbolise its greeting. 

Inside it’s people settle down and enjoy a bible meeting.

No judgement here they chanted out, in our special flock.

A promise spouted, then rescinded - it’s value now begot.

Was my sin so severe, his back he turned to me?

Is this sin a bigger sin...  Now how could that be?

Is my child’s sexual desire judged by you not our God?

You’re full of lies and ignorance, you’re not Gods firing squad!

Narrow minded bible bashers,wrapped in your self-worth.

Bigot, bullying bible preachers and this will be your dearth.

Love us all in colour and creed, accepting in every-way.

Don’t exclude our Fathers child, just because they’re gay.

By Helen Stallard

February 28 2014

Sex Addict

Hi All, hope you are all well?
The following free-verse poem is self explanatory by title alone! However, it is not to be sniffed at. Sexual addiction is very real and can consume. There are many reason bandied about as to why a person becomes addicted. Sexual oppression, or overt sexual exposure… I am no expert, but I have experience it and as always wanted to share my incite. 

Sex Addict

An enigma. 

Body prostrate.

Spent for now.

As worshipping acolyte.

Closed minded to all around. 

Seeping beaded perspiration.  

Radiating done pleasure. 

Wanton desires provided!

Loosely enveloped in what, love?

Freeing you, evolving you. 

You search for... desire, excitement, DANGER?

Your demands... harder, faster, DEEPER. 

This devouring sexual want. 

You labour for your vessel. 

Kowtowing to your need. 

Feeding that habit.

Seeing you clearly. 

Lustfully driven.

Sex Addict.

By Helen Stallard

February 27 2014

What Makes a Poem?

Hello my fellow poet lovers,

I have decided to write a poem about poetry today. I am often asked. "What makes a poem?" Very simple question for me to answer. "You do." There is no point in having a poem if you do not share it. If it is out there someone will connect with it. Read it and be moved in one way or another, because of it. I often ponder for hours, if I should or should not share a piece of my work. Eventually I settle on the same decision. What is the point of having it, if it is not shared. You the reader will decide if it is good and that is my only aim. To allow you to decide. :)

What Makes a Poem?

What makes a poem does anyone know?

The stanza, the structure, the way it will flow.

Why are some quoted and others so great? 

Those magical phrases or lines filled with prate.

Who decides which ones to embrace?

The ones to praise up and the ones lambaste

How does a poem reach famous books?

The ones so embraced and the ones so forsook.

Who is the person who gives the revue?

The author or the agent, no quite simply it’s you.

When you read a poem so full of emotion?

It is the reader who reads it, that sets it in motion. 

Who passes it on and knows what is best? 

Tis you... Not some agent, sat at their desk.

Is it a Poet Laureate who wants to impart? 

It’s you who will hold those words, deep in your heart. 

By Helen Stallard

February 26 2014

Little Red

Good day to you,
The following is an old poem that I wrote years ago. I miss placed it and for some odd reason. Today I recalled it and have written it out for you. I went out walking as a very young mum and found myself with a sleeping baby and time on my hands. Out came my pen and I wrote Little Red.

Little Red

Watching a while.

Making me smile.

Busy little critter.

Making your pile. 

Shimmering in red.

Bobbing your head.

Your’e stashing away. 

Readying your bed.

Fast little flash.  

Watch you dash.

Limb to limb. 

With nutty cache.

Up and down.

Around and round.

Scamper and scurry.

Paws digging ground.

Fearless like leaps.

Growing your heaps.

Soon deepest winter.

Restful deep sleep.

© By HelenStallard  
February 25 2014

Dark Passenger

Good Afternoon All, 

This is another difficult subject to breach and it must seem to you that my poetry is taking on a darker tone. Rest assured it is a passing thing and tomorrow will be filled with musings of a lighter note. I am aware that this will re-open wounds for some. For this is will say, "Do not let your Dark Passenger consume you from within." A moment shared with the right person, can breath new life. Love to all those who will connect with this. <3

Dark Passenger

If you only knew how much my heart longed. 

To feel loved by you and to know I belonged.

In the heat of that moment I was so wronged

They toyed with me and my head and beyond.

I tried to convey in the simplest way.

The confusion I felt on that fateful day.

My childhood was gone and so I would pray.

My distress you would see and my enemy slay.

That token of love that I sought in them.

Is now what I hate, rebuke and condemn.

A moment in time has tarnished your gem.

Leaving self repulsion an emotion to stem.

I tried to convey in the simplest way.

The confusion I felt on that fateful day.

My childhood was gone and so I would pray.

My distress you would see and my enemy slay.

I now know you loved me then and still do.

My vulnerable side was something abused.

I also now know that you had not one clue.

So keep my dark passenger away from you. 

By Helen Stallard  
February 24  2014

Grief Stricken

Good Evening,
The following poem is a very personal one for me. It was written, very badly, in the weeks of grief that I struggled through - after my father passed away. I never knew such despair, grief, anger, uselessness as I knew then. The poem is a bitter sweet memory of, how not to deal with grief, but for me personally to celebrate it. However, it is always a reminder to all, how much I still miss the most important man I have ever known. It is dark, but very, very real. I suffered agraphobia for a time after and at 19 years old, that was very hard for my already grieving family and myself.
Grief counselling was not available to me then, but to anyone grieving please use it if you can.

Greif Stricken

I sit on my bed and and I stare at my room.

Listen to my silence and wait for the gloom.

The gloom arrives in the darkness of night.

So I rise of my bed and I flick on my light.

My heart still pounds at thoughts of another day.

I just want to end it all but what will people say?

You can’t explain that the days turns to night. 

Then after that for them, once again it’s bright. 

That long endless existence that no one can foresee

Is my stalker now and it wants to murder me.

So once again I will lay down in my bed

Hoping that tomorrow i’ll wake up dead.

But tomorrow will come and again I’ll arise.

Wiping the nightmares away from my eyes.

And once again I shall sit on this bed.

My hands around my grief stricken head.

Waiting for the darkness my thoughts fade away.

And see your face clearly on our very last day.

By Helen Stallard 
February 23  2014

Temper

Hello my intrepid poetry readers, 

Bellow I have written snip it of day. I was nearly pushed to an outburst of anger today. I hasten to add that I maintained decorum, but I truly struggled. Some people just don't know when to quit... Or when they have hit your red button. So rather than go thermonuclear on their arse - I picked up a pen and wrote this. Hope you enjoy it. 

Temper

Pushing that emotion deep below.

Where no mere mortal would dare to go.

In the darkest recesses of my-self.

Where that emotion resides in wealth.

My temper suppressed from human view.

Saves you from I and I from you.

By Helen Stallard  
February 22  2014

Queen of my Skin

Hi There, The following piece am sure, will invoke differing reactions. So I won't say much about it, other than we are all made uniquely and I wrote it this morning. 

Queen of my Skin

The room is dim, but all can be seen. 

As I slowly disrobe and wait for my Queen.

I’m now vulnerably naked, but my skin is warm.

Just as my liege wants, as she plays with her pawn. 

When she enters her thrown room, my bodies alive.

As I flash her a glance, with my excited eyes. 

My Queen is a beauty, outside and within. 

And I sigh with pleasure as my monarch begins. 

Her orders and actions are divinely commanding.

My body reacts and erect is now standing. 

So I wait there head bowed as she barks and instructs.

As she glides up towards me, I long for her touch.

But my written rules are clear and spoken quite free. 

I must not touch my Queen, or she cannot punish me.

My session continues and I relish the welts.

With the marks that she leaves, as she wields her red belt. 

Flails of the bull whip across my bare flesh.

The knots leave blue bruises, as I feel it’s caress. 

The pain now exciting, as I bite back my cries. 

As my sovereign so perfect, my body defiles. 

I will look back with awe at the marks on my skin.

And the recall my Queens face and her sexual grin. 

By Helen Stallard
February 21  2014

Being a Mother

Good day to you all and thank you for joining me.
The following poem I wrote a long time ago, when I became a mum for the umpteenth time. It's not an easy job and people often see the things we don't do in a day. Not the things we have done. My children are no exception and I still with the three youngest living at home, struggle with how that makes me feel. Being a mother isn't easy and I don't use those words lightly. As being anyone who someone else depends on is hard. Anyhow see what you think.

Being a Mother

Why is it so hard to be a Mother?

When helping one child upsets another!

To spread your self so very thin.

While trying to balance your kith and kin. 

To manage finances that wont grow.

And seeing sad faces when you have to say “No.”

To cook, clean and carry and still be yourself. 

While maintaining decorum and pride in ones-self.

To love all around, when you just need a rest. 

While all other Mummies are looking their best. 

Those thoughts of solitude, that seem to allude.

Become illegal thoughts and something quite crude. 

When all those around you can vent how the feel.

But your thoughts and emotions aren't allowed to be real

We do love our babies I rush now to hasten. 

It’s not easy being the one to chastise and chasten.

Show more thanks for the jobs that we do. 

For the love and life skills that we’ve poured into you.

So remember why it’s hard being a Mom. 

Because for the jobs that we do we have to be strong. 

By Helen Stallard 
February 20   2014

The Hairdressers Curse.

Afternoon All and welcome to another day in the poetical life of my crazy mind.

The following poem was partly inspired by a friend of mine Tom. He is my hairdresser and today he has worked wonders with my locks. As always we spend our entire time nattering on about this and that and I took this poem along to share with him. 

I trained as and was a hairdresser, many light years ago and it frustrated me how people would walk in and demand a specific cut. Advise as you might, they could be most insistent in their demands. Crazy to try to make someone have a Lady Diana cut, when they have straight hair. Anyway, read and enjoy. Humour is the best form of therapy. 

The Hairdressers Curse

No one can know how in a hairdresser world.

How a disaster is made by the tiniest curl.

When one stray hair like a sentry will stand.

Creating frustration - for perfectionists hands.

When your clients request the latest fashion cut.

You give it your best - but there is always a But...

For your customer has nape whirls or cows licks.

Then even the grandest of trims will not sit.

So next time at the salon - cut your stylist some slack, 

Be realistic with them the next time you go back. 

Listen to your stylist in rhyme, chapter and verse. 

Don’t make yourself the hairdressers curse.

By Helen Stallard 
February 19  2014

The Beast Inside

Good Afternoon Everyone,
The following piece was hard to pen and harder to share. I am aware that spousal rape is real and very much alive out there in the world - in all walks of life and all cultures and not just targeted at females. There are males out there who are also subjected to this crime. My intention is not to offend here, but share and open peoples eyes to the turmoil of emotions you feel, when abused by someone you love and trust. It is hard to bear the scars of any un-consensual  inter-coarse, but it is even harder to move on and hold your head high. Be aware that you are not alone and reach out for help and support.

The Beast Inside

Contorting with pain, from their sexual gain

Their wanton pleasure, as they show no refrain

Blinded in their anger, you reside in that cage

Of a life that consumes, you're trapped by their rage

Licking your wounds, in your child like caress

Replacing the straps, on the shreds of your dress  

The pain in your heart, bringing thoughts of anew!

You love this beast, but you can’t see it through

Your wounds will recover, yourself you must fend

The power with-in them, they will bring you your end

So your wounds will recover, but never your scars

Those shattered emotions… are cut deeper by far

By Helen Stallard 
February 18,  2014.

Gail

Good afternoon,

I was commissioned by a dear friend of mine to write the following piece… She adores her ink work and wanted to express herself in words on her own skin. Not only do these few words encapsulate her as a wonderfully dynamic person - they also epitomise how colourful and non judgemental she is. It is inspiring to see my words on her skin and flattering to me, that someone can trust me so much with something so very personal. Thank you Gail, much love.

Gail

Look beyond what you see.

To rise through your judgement.

Entwined in my colour.

To shine brightly in your darkness.

By Helen Stallard
February 17  2014

Mr O

Good-morning all,
I neglected to write and intro for this piece yesterday. A busy day for me celebrating with my family… As my son played rugby at the Leicester Tigers Ground. A proud mummy moment. Anyway I digress, so back on track. The following piece was written for a great friend of mine. I would write more about him, but he would not thank me for it. Most will assume there is a romantic connection here, but there is not such. See what you think...

Mr O

Secretly we  converse,
Silently we wish to embrace.
My beautiful, intriguing Mr O
Where ever you are,
My desires choose to go
My tempting Mr O.


By Helen Stallard
February 16 2014

Move Maker

Good evening,
Here, I have written a snip it about internet-dating. There are so many stories, sites and adverts regarding it. That I felt compelled to pen a little something. Now it has been many years since I was in the dating game and when I was, internet dating was in it's infancy… frequented by frustrated males hoping for a quickie. How things have changed and internet dating has as many good points now, as it does bad ones. All that is left to say to you is. Stay safe out there people.

Move Maker

She senses his presence, before her eyes settle on the vision of him. An attraction beyond reason. A play with words that responsive bodies devoured. Slow drips of emotional energy, stirring a dance with fanciful tensions. Apprehensions, heightening the encounter. Rushing memories of typed words, thrown into that frustrated vortex. The suspense. The desire. The searching. The playfulness. The exaggerations. Will he be the one who fans those sexual embers … Igniting her desires in real time? A dalliance with an unknown - as she masquerades in her alter ego. 


By Helen Stallard 
February 15  2014

Lust

All around me today I am distracted by tokens of love for valentines. However, it lead me to think of my own past infidelities and what I like to call love crimes. No-one is perfect, but some use the poorest excuses to be unfaithful. I am sure some will never admit to their infidelities…

Lust

Then there were two, two faces interlocked.

Engaged... Bereft of awareness.

Falling into the pleasures of one another.

Twisting and contorting.

Toward that bottomless pit of carnal desire.

Deprived of the passion that embraces them.

They interlock and so it is.

A thoughtless engagement.

For the fruitless pursuit of lust.

Empty of real emotions.

Void of love in those minutes.

Minutes to hours and then.

Regret!

Engulfing you like pitch back.

The darkness off the eternal damned.

What would they do?

The other.

The one you think you love.

Love is a challenge.

In that you find life.

Where you find pain and happiness.

Do you feel for them?

No you feel for yourself.

The real deed is selfishness.

Who is the guilty one?

You the seeker of lust!

By Helen Stallard 
February 14  2014